Smear--smear--like bees-waxing a table. Nothing varminty about
him--nothing of this sort of thing (spreading himself out to the gaze of
his admiring auditory), but I suppose he's useful with slow cattle, and
that's a consolation to us as can't abear them." And with this negative
compliment Tom has broken up his _conversazione_.
I once knew a country ostler--by name Peter Staggs--he was a lower species
of the same genus--a sort of compound of my friend Tom and a waggoner--the
_delf_ of the profession. He was a character in his way; he knew the exact
moment of every coach's transit on his line of road, and the birth,
parentage, and education of every cab, hack, and draught-horse in the
neighbourhood. He had heard of a mane-comb, but had never seen one; he
considered a shilling for a "feed" perfectly apocryphal, as he had never
received one. He kept a rough terrier-dog, that would kill anything in the
country, and exhibited three rows of putrified rats, nailed at the back of
the stable, as evidences of the prowess of his dog. He swore long country
oaths, for which he will be unaccountable, as not even an angel could
transcribe them. In short, he was a little "varminty," but very little.
We will conclude this "lytle historie" with the epitaph of poor Peter
Staggs, which we copied from a rail in Swaffham churchyard.
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